


from her lips

by kiyala



Series: comfortable in your skin [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Genderqueer, Other, smut with a side of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Girl!Enjolras and genderqueer Girl!Grantaire] It's ten o'clock in the morning and Grantaire is already telling herself that she's stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from her lips

**Author's Note:**

> for Sara.

It's ten o'clock in the morning and Grantaire is already telling herself that she's stupid. She's alone in bed, naked, frustrated because she's nice and warm, because she was fucking _tucked in_ at some point in the middle of the night.

She rolls over, buries her face in the pillow beside hers, and pretends she can still smell Enjolras. She pushes two fingers into herself and replays the previous night behind closed lids. Her moans are muffled against the pillow in a way they never are when they're together. When she's with Enjolras she's loud, obnoxious, demanding, nothing like the quiet, self-loathing creature she becomes when she's alone.

" _She_ ," Grantaire mutters to herself bitterly, and sighs. It's going to be one of those days.

A hot shower makes Grantaire hate everything a little less, and so do the finger-shaped bruises on her hips. There's a meeting at their usual café at half past eleven and she gets there a few minutes late, because it's better than getting there early.

Still, Enjolras is the only one there. Grantaire pauses by the doorway, taking her in. Enjolras is strikingly beautiful, her brows drawn together in concentration as she prepares pamphlets to be handed out at their next protest, her golden curls thick and wild, barely restrained in the ponytail that it's been pulled into.

Grantaire is never quite sure how she feels about Enjolras until they're in the same room. Sometimes, Enjolras makes her feel like absolutely nothing else in the world matters. Sometimes, Enjolras makes her feel insignificant, like she will never quite measure up.

Enjolras is constant, always focused, always fiercely determined. Grantaire is a contradiction, and that is how she likes it. She wears her clothes tight and fitted, but her posture is always slouched and uncaring. Her hair is a wild, curling mess, too long to be short, too short to be long, straight only when weighed down by the rain she loves to walk in and even then, just barely brushing her shoulders. She's too feminine to be mistaken for a boy, but she enjoys the double-takes her jeans and button-ups earn her, especially when she's wearing her binder.

"Grantaire," Enjolras greets quietly when she approaches the table. She pushes a pile of papers to Grantaire's side of the table and keeps working.

Grantaire picks one up, staring at it, trying to work up the courage to say something. _You could have woken me up before you left_ , or, _you missed round two_ , or even just, _you really don't have to tuck me in every time you leave_.

Instead, she keeps her head down and starts folding.

«·»

Enjolras might not understand a lot about Grantaire, but at least she gets this. She understands that when Grantaire bites her, it's really because she wants to be bitten in return. She wants Enjolras to pin her to the bed and mark her, break her skin, kiss it better.

Sometimes Grantaire will be happy to drop to her knees and push Enjolras' thighs apart, licking and kissing her way along them, and sometimes Grantaire will blindly reach for the drawer of her bedside table, where she keeps her strap-on and lube, whispering, "Please, can I, please—"

She grinds her cock into Enjolras and it's _her_ cock—Enjolras gets that, too—fucking her with quick, shallow thrusts first and then going harder, deeper. Enjolras gasps, arching off the bed, and understanding might not be the same thing as truly _caring_ , the way Grantaire wishes she would, but she keeps coming back for the sex, and that has to count for something.

The bed creaks beneath them and Enjolras' skin looks golden in the light that filters through the windows from the setting sun. Grantaire kisses every inch of it she can reach; Enjolras' forehead, her cheeks, her neck, shoulders, collar bones, breasts, sucking on each nipple, fully inside her.

"Grantaire," Enjolras gasps, to get her to move. Grantaire responds by sliding a hand between their bodies, thumb rubbing against Enjolras' clit as a counterpoint to the tongue against her nipple. Enjolras jerks, but Grantaire keeps going, not pausing, not even slowing, until Enjolras is incoherent with pleasure, until she's babbling and then pleading and then screaming as she comes, so far from the perfectly put-together person she presents to others.

Grantaire loves it, loves that she is the only one who gets to see Enjolras like this, that she gets to _make_ Enjolras like this. She loves the fact that Enjolras is equally aware of this, that she takes it out on Grantaire by undoing the strap-on, tossing it aside, and pushing her fingers into Grantaire, thrusting mercilessly, leaving Grantaire with an orgasm that makes her mind go utterly blank and quiet, and a pleasant ache between her legs that's still there the next morning.

She's there when Grantaire falls asleep, and she's not when Grantaire wakes. It's a cycle, and Grantaire is okay with that. She wouldn't change it for anything.


End file.
